There’s
something about being held by a man that reassures
me. It’s got nothing to do with any sex that might have just
happened or
might be just about to happen. It’s entirely separate from
sex. And a woman won’t do. Even though the sex can be
great
with a woman, something more essential is missing for me. I know;
I tried.
Of course, I was sixteen and seventeen and eighteen when I tried
but I
don’t think this has changed or can change for me.

So I was about as happy as I get being held by this really wonderful
man with
his really wonderful voice who gave me his really wonderful poem and I
wasn’t
thinking about either sex or supper which just goes to show you how
completely
satisfied I was feeling when he asks me, “When was the last time your
parents
told you they loved you?”

Which is really a pretty weird question for anybody to ask anybody at
anytime
outside of therapy. Or in therapy! I didn’t much want to
think
about that but having been sent there I kinda wandered around looking
for the
answer but not really finding it. I remembered the first time
Kevin said
he loved me and then he said he was sorry while I was thinking, “What
for,
dude? I loved it! I’m sure not gonna to be sorry when I come in
your
mouth.” I remembered the last time Kevin told me he loved me --
he was
kissing me and crying and saying he would always love me but we
couldn’t do sex
any more ’cause he really was straight. I wasn’t even the least
bit upset
’cause I didn’t believe him. It was like the third time he’d gone
through
his “I’m really straight” routine. Apparently third time’s the
charm.

I
remembered the first time Ruthie said she loved me ’cause it was a
violation of
our sex and friendship only rule and, of course, she expected me to say
it
too. Which I didn't. I said a lot of other things which
seemed pretty
close, but I never actually said it to her cause I couldn't say it
cause I
didn't and I wasn't going to cause I was waiting for Kevin to come
back!
Although I didn't tell her that either. I remembered the time
three years
later when she said she hated me.

I remembered the first time Greg said he loved me. It was in
early
September after a long dinner at Galatoire’s; we had strolled through
the
Quarter hand in hand pausing occasionally to listen to some jazz
outside
Preservation Hall, Pat O’Brien’s or some other club. We ended up
on the
Moonwalk, sweating in the still warm night air and watching ships
dodging each
other in the Mississippi River. He said it more matter-of-factly
than I
had hoped for — “You know I love you, don’t you?” But it was
enough. It was the key. I let him in. And I
remembered how I
felt then — like nothing could ever be wrong in my life ever
again. I had
come to New Orleans to be gay and find love and I had. My life
was
perfect. I believed him then and I still do believe he loved
me.
Maybe he still does — as much as he can. Greg has a beautiful
Golden
Retriever named Belle; he loved her, too; it was really about the
same.
He wanted a pet, not a man. I wanted a partner, not a
daddy. We
were doomed from the start but took two and a half years to know it.
I don’t remember the last time -- that got lost among all
the
fights.

So I was fishing around in the I love you place and not coming up with
any
parental memories -- not any last ones, not any first ones, not
any. And
I have a pretty good memory. A few dramatic exceptions -- like
the first
five and a half years of my life and my actual immediate biological
antecedents
-- but overall a very good memory. So if I don’t remember
something
that was supposed to have happened right in front of me, it probably
didn’t
ever happen.

Then I started feeling kinda diminished. My perfect parents and
my
perfect childhood and my whole perfect
if-only-I-could-come-out-to-my-family
life weren’t seeming so perfect anymore. And then I hurt.
And all
of a sudden I just wanted to hurt him as much as he’d just hurt me, so
I asked
him if his sons know he’s a chicken hawk.

Then this asshole, this absolute asshole, laughs and says, “Very good!”

Like we’re playing tennis and even though the point goes against him he
wants
to acknowledge what a good shot I just made. This is all just too
much
for me so I’m standing up yelling, “What’s wrong with you?”
and “Why are you doing this to me?” And I was backing up across
the room
until I couldn’t back up any more and I was yelling some other stuff I
don’t
remember but I’m sure it wasn’t very nice and I was feeling all trembly
inside
and my legs were shaking like I might not be able to stand up much
longer.

Finally I yelled, “What do you want from me? What do you want
from
me?”

Donald took off his glasses ever so slowly and put them on the end
table then
stood up and slipped off his jacket folding it neatly on the arm of the
loveseat then looked at me and said, “Everything.”

Then we were all over each other kissing and licking and ripping our
clothes
off and clawing and pawing and pulling and probing and stroking and
scratching
and sucking and tickling and tweaking and twisting and wanting —
wanting each
other more than any two men had ever wanted each other in the whole
history of
the universe and the whole time I was thinking, “I’m gonna get fucked
by the
Prince of Darkness, I just hope I live through this!”